


Christmas? Sounds Fake But Okay

by jesuisordure



Series: Strange Tales of the Seireitei : Soul Stories [3]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, Humor, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, OOC?, Parody, Salty Byakuya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisordure/pseuds/jesuisordure
Summary: Who would win - a quartet of meddlesome ghosts, or one Ice Princess who had his heart surgically removed because it kept getting in the way?In which Byakuya gets to experience the true meaning of Christmas. He is (predictably) unimpressed.
Series: Strange Tales of the Seireitei : Soul Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477640
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Christmas? Sounds Fake But Okay

**Author's Note:**

> My Brain and I are having a trial separation; this is part of our couple’s therapy. While I am sincere in my desire to recapture the intense passion that once fueled our relationship, I don’t think Brain is taking it very seriously.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring; not even a mouse; for surely multiple heads would have rolled had there been even a whisper of a _rumour_ of a mouse attempting to get within 500 feet of the Kuchiki Manor grounds. In a decidedly Spartan room adjoining a pristinely manicured garden, a man with hair as black as the moonless night sky above and skin as pale and luminous as the snow below it, slept rigidly on his back, his hands arranged neatly across his middle, chest barely moving with the slow, controlled passage of his breath. Even his mind was cleared of all thought, including dreams, as it had been rigorously trained to do from a very young age. Sleep was for rest, and no body parts — especially those prone to bouts of uncontrolled nocturnal whimsy — were excluded from this mandate.

When this state of tranquility, however rigidly martial in nature, was disturbed, the man responded as he had been rigorously trained to do from a young age: with an unwavering sword-tip to the throat of the one who dared invade his home. He might (though he would never admit to it) have displayed an instant of shock when the figure before him dropped the hood of its cloak to reveal the face of his grandfather (who was very much _not_ walking and talking and performing other activities commonly displayed in living individuals, for the record), but quickly regained his impeccable sense of composure and imperiousness to stare the trespasser down.

“And you are?” the young noble inquired with as much disaffected disdain as he could muster, considering the circumstances. Facing the stern, grey-haired man in front of him, however much an illusion he might be, took him right back to all the worst parts of his boyhood.

“You have forgotten the face of your grandfather already?”

“Would that I was so fortunate,” Byakuya (for that was the young noble’s name) replied, giving a shallow bow that was more of an insult than a sign of respect. “Rest assured, Ginrei-sama, you are a constant presence in my head, reminding me every day of how I fail in every aspect of my life. There is slim chance I could forget you, no matter how I try.” He muttered the last bit under his breath. Byakuya was tired, and not wholly convinced this wasn’t some sort of fever dream, or he might not have been so bold in his response. But then, his grandfather had always brought out the worst in him.

“You have forgotten the meaning of ‘respect’ as well, I see.” The spirit was clearly displeased, and the reaction caused a strange mulishness to take hold of the young noble.

“I seem to remember you moulding me quite purposefully in your image, Ginrei-sama, something you were thankfully never quite able to achieve with my father. Aren’t you proud of your creation?”

His grandfather puffed himself up and blustered, but the indignant look on his face was worth the verbal onslaught. “How dare you! You have taken my wisdom and twisted it to suit your own requirements.”

Byakuya managed to keep his voice mild, despite the furious beating of his heart and tingling in his hands that always accompanied confrontations with the man who had been completely unforgiving in his dealings with his grandson. “Much as you did with my happiness. So again I ask: aren’t you proud, _Grandfather_?”

His grandfather’s spirit made to harangue him further, but Byakuya stunned even himself when he cut the man he had always found so intimidating, off. “Now, if all you came here for was to berate me in person for all the ways in which I am a thorough disappointment, consider me soundly chastised and please escort yourself out. Ginrei-sama.” 

“Despite your insolence, I am unable to do so until I have delivered a message, so listen closely, whelp. Tonight, you will be haunted by three spirits…”

“How absolutely thrilling.”

_**“Tonight you will be haunted by three spirits. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one. The second the next night at the same hour, and the third and final ghost at one on the night thereafter."** _

Byakuya studied the spirit in front of him consideringly. “The dramatics are very out of character. Are you sure you are who you say you are?” He was richly rewarded with the discovery that spirits could indeed flush with anger. “Fine, whatever you say, but I’m not dragging this out for three nights. Everything tonight or I refuse to take part.”

Two Kuchiki Glares met at the centre of the room, threatening to create a small vortex or other reality-damaging-inclined event.

_“You will regret your impudence, foolish child.”_

“Thank you for your loving concern as always, Grandfather. Now kindly leave, before I call Kurotsuchi Taichō. I’m sure he’d love to examine this phenomenon in person.”

The Kuchiki heir was suddenly alone, pleased to discover that the threat of becoming one of the painted madman’s “projects” extended beyond the grave, or veil or whatever. Lying back down and expertly positioning his neck on the hard support of the _takamakura_ , he allowed his eyes to drop gently shut, his whole body falling into a state of alert repose so often found in those trained for the constant threat of attack.

A clock struck one, which was notable, as there was not a single chiming clock in the manor; quite likely the entire Seireitei (although he wouldn’t put it past Urahara to have hidden one somewhere). Byakuya was roused instantly by the incongruence of this sound, though he lay still, evaluating the situation. Through barely-slitted lids he could make out yet another intruder in his sanctum, this one sitting at his beautifully inlaid and enamelled writing desk, reading in the dim light filtered through shōji. Byakuya recognised them from their posture alone.

“Father…?”

“I’m sorry, son, I didn’t mean to wake you.” The spirit raised its head, bathing Byakuya in a warmth he hadn’t known for fifty years.

“You just missed Grandfather, so if you’re here to tell me how I’ve let you down, he beat you to it.” His voice was resigned, rather than bitter, lacking all of the acidic bite of his earlier encounter.

In a rustle of silks and the faint scent of _hinoki_ , his father was at his bedside, gently stroking his hair as he used to when Byakuya was a boy, unable to sleep due to the raging anxiety that had been his lifelong companion. “Oh, Byakuya. Let down? Never. Saddened, yes. You have turned your skin to ice and your voice to frost so that none can come near you — none dare! — not even your sister.”

Byakuya winced, pulling his head away from his father’s touch.

“You reject even my affection if there is the slightest danger it will get too close to you. Byakuya, the hurt inside you won’t disappear just because you pretend it isn’t there. You cannot heal in isolation.”

Despite the softness of his father’s words, Byakuya felt them lodge under his skin like barbs. His father spoke true, but he didn’t need to be reminded of it. Avoidance had been serving him quite well up until now. “What are you doing here, Father?” he asked, hopefully changing the subject.

“Ah, forgive me. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” he announced, with a wide smile; and then at his son’s slight frown of confusion added, “It’s a very popular holiday in some parts of the Human World; a celebration of goodwill and compassion towards all mankind, the bonds of family, everything covered in blinking lights and festive red bows...”

“It sounds contrived.”

He laughed at Byakuya’s astute — if cutting — summation of a tradition he knew nothing about. “It is, a little… alright, it is completely contrived, but I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to see you.” He brushed a hand over his son’s hair again, a hint of sadness in his otherwise joyful eyes. 

He was always smiling; always loving; always kind; that’s what Byakuya remembered about his father. There was so much to say to the man who had been taken from him too soon, and yet no need to say it now that he was here, the quiet between them feeling more important than any words that might fill it. Byakuya had always found his father's presence calming, uplifting. He made Byakuya feel... worthy. None of that had changed, and it was over far too soon.

“I am sorry I cannot stay any longer my son, but I have an important message for you: That which is cold and unyielding is brittle and will break. Rekindle your fire, or you will freeze to death alone in the prison you have built for yourself.” He rose, placing a kiss on top of Byakuya’s head.

Byakuya watched in silence as his father faded away, a tender smile on his face as a whispered, “I love you” floated across the space between them. Only when the last trace of light disappeared did he relinquish control and allow his burning hot tears to fall freely (silently, of course, and not on the silk, where it would stain). Once he considered himself sufficiently put together, he called for tea, drinking it in the still winter silence of his bedroom, which now felt decidedly lonely rather than peaceful.

When Byakuya was roused once again from the warmth and softness of silk and finest cotton, he was not even a little bit surprised, but what he lacked in surprise, he made up for in annoyance. This one didn’t even do him the courtesy of approaching from a distance, instead appearing right at his bedside to loom over him in a way that would have had it disemboweled and beheaded before its innards hit the floor, had Byakuya not been expecting the interruption. With the window at the spirit’s back, there was no light by which to make out its features either. If that problem wasn’t solved within the next three seconds, Byakuya was planning on solving it himself. Violently.

“Byakuya — ”

“That’s _Kuchiki-sama_. I don’t know you.”

“But you do, child.” The spirit’s voice was warm and saccharine, as if it had been liberally dusted with sugar, promising twinkling eyes and a laugh that was too loud. Byakuya despised all three of those things. His lips thinned into a hard line.

The figure turned away slightly — slowly and dramatically — allowing Byakuya to see the extremely familiar wizened face and long beard of the Sōtaichō. He snorted dismissively in a decidedly ignoble fashion. The day Yamamoto-san’s eyes twinkled would be the day Kenpachi turned down a fight. He was bored already. 

“Explain yourself.”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!” the spirit proclaimed, sounding all too proud of its station in life (the afterlife? after-afterlife?), like a student who had just managed their first _Sai_.

“I see. That is very interesting because, unless something has changed in the last few hours and no one has seen fit to alert me, the Old Man is very much alive and would no doubt have a few burning questions if he knew what crimes you were perpetrating against his reputation.”

“No, you don’t understand; it’s a metaphor. You — ”

The positively _glacial_ look Byakuya gave the spirit could have frozen lava in its tracks. Undeterred and undaunted, the uninvited visitor continued with its presentation (or at least made a valiant effort to proceed in that general direction).

“You will come with me that I might show you all that you miss as a result of the hardness in your heart.”

Just listening to its voice set Byakuya’s teeth on edge. “You don’t even sound like him. Have you ever given anyone an order in your life? You really don’t strike me as a leader; I doubt you’d ever even make a seated position… in the Fourth.”

The spirit frowned thunderously in a way that Byakuya had to admit was actually a very accurate impression of the Old Man. Finally.

“Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, but the regular guy called in sick so here I am and I can’t leave you until we do this, so unless you want to be stuck with me — “

The frustration evident in its voice was immensely gratifying, leading Byakuya to feel somewhat cooperative, if only for the pleasure of future resistance. “Very well,” he sighed elegantly. “But don’t expect me to participate in your little stage show.”

 _ **“Then come with me,”**_ the spirit instructed, in what was no doubt supposed to be a commanding baritone. The effect was ruined by the nasal whine that came at Byakuya’s sudden refusal to comply.

“No.”

“But you said — “ 

“The details of the situation have obviously escaped you, but I am hardly dressed for flitting about the Seireitei at some unholy hour of the morning _in the middle of winter_. If you wish for me to accompany you, you will wait while I dress.” When the spirit made no move to leave, Byakuya clarified his instructions. “You will wait, _outside_.”

Once alone, he was torn between dressing himself in an exceedingly leisurely fashion, forcing the spirit to wait and fret, or making haste so that he could get this farce over and done with. Expedience won out, and he quickly layered up with several warm items, tucking the book he was currently reading inside his kimono for good measure, before rejoining his tormentor.

“I am ready.”

The spirit was either a new recruit, wholly incompetent, or terribly unsettled by the Kuchiki noble’s demeanour (Byakuya suspected all three), as there were several false starts before they managed to travel to their intended destination, a bright flash signalling their arrival (there was also glitter, for which somebody was going to pay _dearly_ ).

“Shunpo would have been faster.” Byakuya didn’t think it was possible for a spirit to audibly grind its teeth, but you learn something new every day. He marked another tally under his own name on the internal scoreboard that was always in play inside his unexpectedly — and secretly — mischievous mind.

“Are you going to tell me why we are lurking in the courtyard of the 13th, or did you get it wrong again?” (And did the spirit just take an exaggeratedly deep breath? It certainly sounded like it. Another point for Team Byakuya.)

“Even better, I’m going to show you,” the spirit said conspiratorially. Discount Yamamoto was sounding all too sure of itself again. If past behaviour did indeed predict that of the future, then this did not bode well. For either of them.

The next dramatic flash landed the two travellers inside the very bedroom of the 13th Division Captain — one of the oldest and most respected members of the Gotei, as well as one of Byakuya’s mentors — where he lay sound asleep and completely unaware of their presence, the snowy waterfall of his hair mixing with the all-too familiar unruly brown curls of his 8th Division compatriot, lying snuggled into his partner’s side. Gentle smiles graced both their lips, even in the depths of slumber.

The spirit, who — it was becoming ever more apparent by the minute — clearly had a death wish, sighed adoringly in the direction of the sleeping lovers, blissfully oblivious of the volcano of outrage about to erupt in the nearby vicinity of its left elbow. “Don’t they look happy? So peaceful… Take note, Bya— Kuchiki-sama; you have a potentially very long life ahead of you, a very long life that will be equally as lonely if you don’t allow anyone into your heart to share it with.”

It turned to face the noble, expecting to see life-changing realisation dawning on his aristocratic features, but instead blanched to what might be termed a "ghostly white” — were it not already a few shades lighter — upon seeing the cold fury reflected there.

Byakuya didn’t need to raise his voice in order to make the depths and breadths of his displeasure known. “And you have a potentially very _short_ life ahead of you if you don’t get us out of here right now. Unless you are interested in learning first-hand what a konsō feels like.”

Apparently “konsō” was the magic word, as the seething noble quickly found himself transported to Sokyoku Hill, overlooking the nighttime sprawl of the Seireitei. He focused on the chill of the crisp, clean winter air as he inhaled deeply, and the way his breath froze and clung to his eyelashes as he exhaled.

“Do not. Do that. Again.” Byakuya’s words were barely audible as they squeezed out from between clenched jaws. He didn’t know if he was more enraged by the extreme violation of his fellow Captains’ privacy, that he was forced to be an unwitting accomplice to the act, or the intensely painful memories it stirred within him; memories he was now struggling to bring back under control.

The spirit seemed to recognise — likely from the barely controlled trembling of Byakuya’s white-knuckled fists clenched tightly at his sides — that it had, to be perfectly blunt, fucked up. Unfortunately, it still had a job to do.

Their next jump brought them to another set of living quarters. Byakuya’s head turned slowly towards his escort, like an especially murderous owl sighting an especially plump mouse (though nowhere near the Kuchiki Manor). “Do you make a habit of breaking into people’s bedrooms, because I am starting to question your motives for this disastrously ill-thought out expedition.”

The fact that the door was already open and the scene playing out in the room it led to was one of barely controlled mayhem — rather than intimacy — cooled Byakuya’s temper slightly, but it was the actual brand of mayhem he was witnessing that brought a smile as wickedly sharp as his Zanpakutō’s multitude edges to his lips. 

Zaraki was starfished out on his bed, fully clothed except for his kosode and shitagi which had been thrown open to the sides. Either he was a very sound sleeper, or he was actually unconscious (Byakuya’s money was on the latter), because the smooth planes of his tightly-muscled torso (it didn’t hurt to look, after all) were playing host to an ever-growing family of snow Hollows, courtesy of the Shinigami Women’s Association’s most dangerous weapons: the Pink Devil and her older — though no more mature — counterpart from the 10th.

Byakuya found the whole thing highly amusing on multiple levels, but nobody needed to know that, especially not the spirit that had brought him here. “What exactly is this — “ he waved a metaphorical hand dismissively, “supposed to prove?” (He knew precisely what it was meant to prove; the spirit’s execution of its message wasn’t particularly subtle.)

“The love of _family_ , Kuchiki-sama, wherever you find it.”

“Ah, of course. So: hiding in my walls, passed out blind drunk in her office, and stalking me in the hope of goading me into a fight? I cannot say I am feeling terribly convinced, let alone loving.”

 _“I’m starting to understand why the regular guy called in ‘sick’,”_ the spirit grumbled under its breath, much to Byakuya’s satisfaction. (He made another mark on his internal scoreboard. He was winning.) “I can see that you will take a little more convincing than most; shall we head to our final stop?” The spirit’s voice was light, but its eyes had taken on a certain lifeless submission that Byakuya relished in. (Quietly, on the inside, naturally.)

From a rooftop close to the 6th Division barracks, its Captain gazed down on the four clearly inebriated figures laughing as they made their way gingerly through the streets, arms slung around each other for support (for all the good it was doing them). He grimaced to see both his sister and his lieutenant among their number, along with the two brawlers from the 11th; the vain one and the bald one, whatever their names were.

“The love of friends,” Byakuya remarked dryly, surveying the loud, stumbling, occasionally puking bunch of idiots before him.

The spirit pouted a little at having its line stolen, but it was well known for its ability to improvise and decided to try some positive reinforcement tactics on its prickly — and downright uncooperative — pupil. “Now you’re getting it!”

Little did the spirit know (although at this point it should have been able to figure it out for itself) that the young noble was something of an atheist when it came to a belief in positive reinforcement and other such teaching methods that pandered to emotional frailty. Why waste words when a single glare got the job done in a quarter of the time? 

Byakuya rolled his eyes so hard he actually felt the strain in his optic nerves.

The spirit had positioned itself uncomfortably close to its charge, well within Byakuya’s guard, making his fight or fight instinct skitter uncomfortably beneath his skin. Its breath was disturbingly warm in his ear. “How does it make you feel, Kuchiki-sama?”

“I _feel_ like my sister is going to pay dearly for her actions in the currency of regret,” he took a step away; “and I _feel_ like my Lieutenant is going to be late tomorrow and shirk his paperwork,” and another; “and I _**feel**_ ,“ he turned and fixed the spirit with his trademark “scatter” glare, “like I am going to enjoy torturing them both very much.”

“But look how happy they are...?” Some people just don’t know when to quit.

Byakuya stared levelly at the practically grovelling spirit, as he advanced on it in a slow stalk, carefully enunciating every word in time with his steps. “Do you know what would make _me_ happy?” The spirit shook its head nervously, although it had a strong suspicion. “ **My bed**.”

But even as he turned to go, Byakuya heard his guide call out from behind him, “Wait! Just one more?” Some people _really_ don’t know when to quit.

The insufferable spirit was dispatched in a textbook konsō before it even knew what was happening. Byakuya sighed with satisfaction (and no small measure of smugness) at the sound of his Zanpakutō sliding back into its sheath. There was nothing quite like the feeling of finally laying a particularly bothersome problem to rest.

He flash-stepped home by way of his Division; not because he cared about Renji (he did), but because it was on the way (it wasn’t). Checking his Lieutenant’s quarters, Byakuya found the door open. After cautiously calling Renji’s name and receiving no answer, he stepped inside the small room. The wildly tattooed redhead lay passed out half on the floor — like the baboon he was — half on his futon, which was currently occupied by a sprawl of Rukia. Idiots. They deserved every ounce of pain they’d be feeling when they dragged themselves out of bed in a few hours. In fact…

When the two woke the next morning, they found themselves carefully covered in blankets with limbs neatly arranged, watched over by a giant, scowling, Admiral Seaweed snowman. Why it had a red nose was anyone’s guess.

Byakuya had just managed to get comfortable after an hour-and-a-half’s worth of breathing exercises and meditating on the _“50 Faces of Fear”_ he was able to evoke in Renji simply by raising an eyebrow (the left one; the right resulted in a whole other batch of emotions), when his senses alerted him to his final “visitor” of the evening. He rolled languidly onto his side, propping his head up with one hand in feigned casualness. Anyone who knew him would have started running at this point — Byakuya Kuchiki didn’t _do_ casual — even without taking into account the way one corner of his mouth (the right side — see Renji for details) was twitching dangerously close to a micro-smirk.

“Let me guess, the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

“I prefer 'Christmas Yet To Come',” the figure, who looked suspiciously like an aged-up version of himself, replied with stoic confidence. This did not deter Byakuya in the least; he was very good at burying his demons, especially the Byakuya-shaped ones. He smiled, pouring every ounce of condescension at his disposal into the gesture (all those hours spent practising in front of a mirror paid off). 

“How very unfortunate for you. 

_Chire, Senbonzakura_.”

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house was cherry-scented peace and fucking quiet. In a room where the sweet scent of sakura hung particularly heavy, Byakuya Kuchiki, 28th Head of the Kuchiki Clan and Captain of the 6th Division of the Gotei 13, smiled in his sleep, visions of razor-edged death and destruction dancing in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> ~Every time a Byaukya smiles, a Renji wakes up screaming, even if he was awake already.~
> 
> Yeah yeah I could have chosen Hisana for Xmas Past but that’s a bit of a kick in the balls, even for me and my love of dropping characters head first into an industrial-strength blender just to hear them scream.
> 
>  **Takamakura :** A hard, raised pedestal “pillow”, used by Maiko to preserve their elaborate hairstyles, as well as Samurai, for the similar reason of maintaining their topknots. I can totally see Byakuya using one to both protect his hair (so silky! so flawless!) and “punish” himself (because he’s a mess).  
>  **Hinoki :** A type of cypress and one of the 5 sacred trees of Japan, Hinoki wood is very commonly used in the construction of temples, shrines and baths. It has a light lemony scent overlying a subtle smokiness, and is known for its relaxing qualities and antimicrobial properties. A fitting scent for a spirit, especially Sōjun.


End file.
